


Loving Someone

by Basic_Spirit



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Falling In Love, Healing, M/M, Post-Canon, Sad Ending, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-11 23:21:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15326637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Basic_Spirit/pseuds/Basic_Spirit
Summary: Miles never asked to love Waylon Park. A year of proximity didn't leave him with much of a choice.(or: the progression of Miles and Waylon's relationship through the four Greek distinctions of love)





	1. στοργή –  empathetic love

Three months after the events at Mount Massive, the story was out, and Miles and Waylon were focusing on getting better.  
  
Of course, it had taken a while to expose Murkoff. The damn company had tried their very best to keep things quiet, but it all came crashing down as time passed. Those first few weeks after, Waylon was prepared to be on the lam for quite some time. He was happy to be out of hiding, getting help like he needed.  
  
The firm of lawyers that had sued Murkoff into the ground had earned Waylon and also Miles their fair share of compensation, a large portion of which was going towards the best psychiatric services money could buy.  
  
Still, it was damn near impossible to fix what Mount Massive had fucked up.  
  
Miles and Waylon had only met a time or two before – after it first all came out, they had seen each other in the courtroom for the first time. Miles hadn’t known how to feel; to be completely honest, Waylon Park was the reason he’d ever gone into that place. He was the reason he’d lost his humanity.  
  
(Miles would never let the law know what had really happened to him in that place. He’d never let them know what he still possessed. What still possessed him.)  
  
He knew Waylon’s story, and Waylon knew his. Just the gist of things; neither of them could watch the other’s tapes. Miles wanted Waylon to get the story out, but other than that, he wanted nothing to do with the man. It hurt Miles on a level he wouldn’t admit, seeing Park in court with his put-together wife and two sons.  
  
They had seen each other only a handful of times then, in the beginning. After the case was settled (little testimony was needed from either witness; the evidence was far too strong), both Miles and Waylon were moved to Denver to complete a set course of rehabilitation. Miles was aware that Park lived somewhere in the same apartment building as the rented one the lawyers had picked out, but he never ran into the man again.  
  
Thus, it caught him off guard when, in early December, his therapist brought Waylon up.  
  
“Mr. Upshur, what do you think of Waylon Park?”  
  
Miles prided himself on his good intuition, but he had not seen this question coming in the slightest. He tried to keep Waylon from his thoughts; blaming him wouldn’t do any good. He lowered his eyes and gave a soft shrug.  
  
His therapist’s expression gentled. “Give me an idea of the kind of thoughts you have about him. It doesn’t have to be a solid decision either way, just let out whatever comes to mind.”  
  
Miles was not a slow thinker by any means. His mind already circled: he knew the things that had happened to him weren’t Waylon’s fault. Waylon was a victim who didn’t know how else to get help. Did Waylon get it worse than him? Definitely not. Did he dislike Waylon? Yes. The thought that the man had ever chosen to work for Murkoff meant something in his judgment was clouded; perhaps he wanted to expose it out of cowardice. Perhaps he deserved what he’d gotten.  
  
“I am trying not to blame him,” Miles finally verbalized. “I’m trying to understand his perspective.”  
  
The therapist looked down at his page. “Are you sure you’re not telling me what I want to hear?”  
  
Miles was rather good at that. He shook his head. His mental accusations weren’t something he was willing to stand by.  
  
The doctor had no choice but to believe him. “Well, if you do harbor no hostility towards him, Dr. Lopez, Park’s therapist, has requested that the two of you meet privately.”  
  
Miles had never spoken one on one with Waylon before. He frowned a little at the idea of being left alone in a room with that man. Neither was in the best mind frame, and most of the time, now, Miles preferred to be alone. “... Why?” Miles asked after a long pause.  
  
“Dr. Lopez believes Waylon’s progress has been stunted as he feels extreme guilt for your… current condition,” the doctor tried to find a nice way to put it.  
  
Miles frowned. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to relieve that.”  
  
“You’re not expected to,” the therapist consoled him. “We hope that being able to freely communicate will free up some suppressed thoughts. If you agree, we’ve already scheduled the two of you in for next Tuesday at ten if you’d like…”    
  
Miles suddenly felt forced into the situation; obligated to give Park a chance. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want to have to tell Waylon it wasn’t his fault for sending him in – he didn’t want to have to tell Waylon that he’d be no worse off without him. At a loss for words, the doctor seemed to take this as affirmation and handed him a card with the date written on it.  
  
When Miles returned to his apartment, he felt angry, set up. It wouldn’t help him to see Waylon; it would just bring up painful shit he’d worked to repress. He had no interest in forming any kind of connection to Waylon; their one shared feature was their common enemy, and there was nothing more than that. The rest of the weekend, Miles tried to decide what he could say to dismiss Waylon in the shortest amount of time.  
  
Monday night, he didn’t sleep until nearly 4 a.m. Most nights were like that. One advantage to the chronic sleep deprivation was the reduced REM – if Miles didn’t sleep, he didn’t dream. _It_ didn’t feed. However, when he woke up Tuesday morning with the sun running through the slatted blinds, it was like rising from a dead sleep. He knew his circadian rhythms were fucked, but that usually wasn’t a problem. Usually, he wasn’t on a schedule.  
  
The red digital clock next to him was already showing 9:35.  
  
Miles groaned, eyes hurting, muscles weak with exhaustion. He pulled the thick covers off of him, cold winter wind shaking the thin windows. He shook his head to wake himself, brain tired, trying to force himself awake. In his mind, the night before, he’d planned out his outfit. He didn’t care about his therapist seeing him in sweatpants, but he wanted Waylon to think he was alright. He wanted to be okay. (Or, to seem to be okay, at least.)  
  
So he pulled on pressed green slacks and a brown cable knit sweater. He shaved (for the first time this week) and brushed his hair (for the first time this month) and ate something with his pills (maybe for the first time ever). Although the face he saw in the mirror was still unfamiliar – too gaunt, too thin, too tired – at least he looked presentable.  
  
Sitting in one of the side offices in the therapist’s building, he felt out of place. Everything he’d planned to say was useless; god knows what Waylon would actually say.  
  
And Miles had been worried he would be late! He sat in silence in the room for nearly ten minutes, the other man nowhere to be found, trying to amuse himself by playing with his hands.  
  
(He’d never be used to the gaps in his fingers.)  
  
Finally, the door swung open and a man entered. Now, it had been more than two months since Miles had seen the other man, and this man looked completely different. Park’s hair had been barely grown back from the shaved head he’d had in the asylum when they’d first been acquainted in court. Now, it was a long, dark, unruly mess, uneven, tangled, falling into his tired, dark eyes. He was wearing a large university hoodie – some swanky west coast school, it made Miles scoff – and baggy grey sweatpants, hideous boots, no jacket.  
  
Clearly, looking alright didn’t matter to him.  
  
The receptionist was behind him. “Mr. Upshur, this is Mr. Park. You all have the room booked for an hour, but if things seem to wrap up before then, feel free to head out at your leisure.”    
  
The door was closed, and the two were alone.  
  
Waylon practically dropped to his knees, shaking, looking distressed. “Miles… I am so sorry…”  
  
God, his therapist hadn’t been exaggerating when he had said Waylon’s progress had been stunted. Miles hadn’t seen much improvement in himself; he was still running on constant levels of cortisol, immune function down, sleep deprivation, depressive spells where he couldn’t find the motivation to get out of bed, nightmares. But Waylon had gotten worse — he was falling apart.  
  
Waylon was clearly so consumed by regret: he was groveling on the floor, practically begging Miles for forgiveness. “I wish I’d never sent that email… things in the world are fucked up and I shouldn’t have tried to do anything about it—”  
  
Miles was suddenly realizing that, in inviting him to the asylum, Waylon has doomed himself as well. If he hasn’t reached out, he wouldn’t have been committed. He didn’t care about Miles. Uncomfortable, the journalist pushed Waylon off, and he recoiled so he was kneeling still.  
  
“Pull yourself together, Park,” Miles said softly, distressed at seeing the other man cry. “You have no reason to care.”  
  
“I dragged you into this and I made your purpose irrelevant!” Waylon exclaimed.  
  
Miles had to admit, this was a thought he’d had many times. But he’d been able to create rational thought patterns: “There’s no way you could’ve known.”  
  
“I didn’t know, but it happened, and now you’re…” Waylon was blubbering, crying, enough to make Miles cringe with second-hand embarrassment, “f-fucked up for life… you’re so young…”  
  
“I get it,” Miles suddenly raised his voice. “I get it, you’re guilty, you want me to tell you you’re wrong, but I can’t!” He was making Waylon _cower,_ something Miles had never thought he was possible of. “Yes, I’m fucked up, so are you, and we’re never going to be the same as we were before, but we stopped it, Park. No one else has to suffer because we stopped it. Doesn't that at least give you some solace?”  
  
This silenced Waylon. Clearly, the software guy was not self-sacrificial by any means. He had thought that sending the email would be all he could do to help the poor souls cooped up in Mount Massive. But everything that had happened had spiraled from _Waylon,_ he was the cause of all of this, and Miles seemed to believe that their punishment had been worth it.  
  
Waylon finally let out a horrible sigh and forced himself up, sitting on one of the couched perpendicular to Miles. “I’m sorry… I am such a mess.”  
  
Miles shook his head. “You don’t have to act like people expect.”  
  
“I-I can’t hide it,” Waylon wiped his nose. “I’m not… _strong_ like you.”  
  
This made Miles pause. He never thought of himself as strong. He wasn’t strong. He cared about appearances, that’s all, and maybe he had better coping strategies than the tech guy.  
  
Without his answer, Waylon went on, “I-I don’t know if Dr. Noble told you, but… my wife is leaving me…”  
  
Miles visibly changed. He hadn’t known that. When he’d last seen Lisa Park, she’d clearly been the dominant one in their relationship. Waylon had been leaning onto her for every moment he’d seen. It almost made Miles smirk to think that, by himself, Waylon crashed and burned.  
  
But that was the situation he was in.  
  
Miles felt very alone in this strange town, constantly by himself in his tiny apartment. He had no support system of any means, and it wasn’t easy. He felt shitty for expecting Waylon to find it easy. Uncomfortable, he rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. “... That’s fucked up.”  
  
“I know…” Waylon sniffed again and ran a hand through his long, black hair. “S-she thought it’s too hard to raise the boys and look after me, so she’s taking them back to live with her parents in Iowa. A-at least until I get better…” He sighed. “I’d do anything for them. I hate them seeing me like this.”  
  
Miles had read his notes. He’d known how many times Waylon had said he’d kill himself if it weren’t for his boys. He’d lost his reason for going on, and that was the most fucked up thing of all.  
  
Maybe they weren’t so different.  
  
“I… I’m trying to tell myself it’s better off I do this on my own,” Waylon said softly. “But it’s so hard waking up w-with no one beside you.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Miles finally said, sitting back and lacing his hands in his lap.  
  
Waylon snorted. “Sorry for what?”  
  
Miles shook his head. “I don’t know. Sorry this had to happen to us. Sorry for how hard this is.”  
  
“It’s hard but…” Waylon met Miles’ gaze for the first time that day. “It’s comforting to know that I’m not really alone.”  
  
It was true; as different as they were as people, they had a shared experience and they were now in the same position in their life.  
  
Miles was realizing he didn’t really dislike Waylon Park.  


	2. φιλία – friendship love

  
Six months after Mount Massive, Waylon had Miles’ phone number on speed dial.  
  
At some point in the winter, the therapists had given each of them a way to contact the other, thinking that strength in numbers would take some of the pressure off each of them. Once Waylon’s family moved out, the man had taken to calling Miles after nightmares. At first, it had upset Miles; he didn’t want to be dragged into Waylon’s trauma. However, he usually wasn’t asleep when Waylon called, and being able to comfort the other man gave Miles a sense of control.  
  
Plus, it gave Miles a chance to vent his own dreams. This was something he hadn’t had earlier on – now, he was aware he had been repressing thoughts, memories, things that were now arising in his subconscious on a nightly basis. Waylon insisted on being a listener, and Miles would never tell his thoughts to his therapist; he didn’t want any of that psychoanalytic unconscious bullshit. Getting the dreams out seemed to be helping keep them out of mind during the day.  
  
However, they only ever talked at night, only ever when they were in crisis. It wasn’t like a real relationship, and Miles couldn’t help but feel that he was being used.  
  
However, he told himself he was gaining from it, too.  
  
(This wasn’t the only case of mutualism Miles was living in.)  
  
It had become a little less uncommon for Miles to see Waylon around the apartment complex. It was a bright March morning, cold, sure, but the sun had heat. Miles was trying to spend more time outdoors now that the winter was withdrawing, but he didn’t really have much of an excuse to get out.  
  
He was heading out for a walk when he spotted Waylon’s face on the other side of the lobby doors. Although they’d been talking to each other a fair amount, they rarely saw each other face to face. He still looked tired, but his hair was trimmed and combed and he’d been shaving more recently. In one hand he was carrying two enormous grocery bags and in the other he had his cane, limping into the front entrance. Moving suddenly, Miles pulled the door open for him, propping it and standing back.  
  
“Thanks,” Waylon said, hidden behind the bag of groceries, not noticing who was letting him in. When he passed the threshold, he finally saw Miles face and recoiled a little. “Oh! Hi.”  
  
Miles smiled slowly. “Hi. Need a hand with those?”  
  
“I’ll be fine,” Waylon tried, but the bags were already straining in his hand.  
  
Miles, without instruction, moved over and lifted the heavier bag, moving ahead to push the elevator button. “Really, I’ve got nothing else to do.”  
  
Waylon looked down as the waited for the elevator and brushed his hair back behind his ear. “Thanks.” He even smiled. This was new.  
  
Miles thought the therapy was going okay, but it wasn’t going as well as he hoped. He’d gotten depressed over the winter, nothing to look forward to, no real recovery on the horizon. The nightmares, once they’d arrived, were always there, always the same. He was happy to see some joy in his life.  
  
The elevator door dinged open. “What floor?” Miles asked, letting Waylon step on first.  
  
The tech guy leaned over and hit _4_ with his elbow. “I’m pretty close to the elevator, you don’t have to come,” he assured Miles.  
  
As dubious as Miles was of elevators, he climbed on with the groceries. “It’s fine.” Miles lived on the second floor next to the stairs, so he’d never taken the elevator since he’d lived here. Inside it, as his heart rate quickened, the lights above him flickered. He focused hard on keeping his mind blank.  
  
Waylon was spooked. “What’s happening?”  
  
Miles didn’t let himself reply until the door was open to the 4th floor. “... Technology doesn’t like me anymore.”  
  
Waylon looked distant for a second before hobbling over to his apartment. “Well, this one is mine.”  
  
Miles didn’t stop there; he helped bring the bags into the apartment. It was a similar layout to his own, but two bedrooms (one now clearly vacant) and sporting a bit more decoration. Without Waylon asking, he stayed and helped load the groceries into the cupboards and refrigerator. Waylon took off his jacket and lay his cane aside, sitting and rubbing his ankle.  
  
“Still no better?” Miles asked with his back to Waylon.  
  
“Hmm,” the other man replied. “Maybe worse. I don’t know why it won’t heal.”  
  
“Stress fucks up your immune system,” Miles said softly. “I hope it gets better soon, though.” Months ago, Waylon hadn’t needed the cane. It made Miles feel terrible that Waylon was getting worse; it made him feel terrible for feeling like he wasn’t making any progress.  
  
“... Do you want to do something today?” Waylon asked out of the blue.  
  
Miles looked back at him, pausing his work. “Excuse me?”  
  
“Like, spend the day in downtown Denver,” Waylon clarified. “Get out of the apartment, have lunch out somewhere. I’ve never lived here, but I’ve been on a couple day trips down when I was living in Boulder. I can show you around.”  
  
“You really want to… hang out?” Miles clarified.  
  
Waylon nodded. “Y’know… pretend we’re fucking normal for a couple hours? Get some sun?”  
  
Miles shook his head, smiling despite himself. “Sure. Of course. You sure you’re okay with walking?”  
  
“As long as we go slow,” Waylon assured, closing the cupboard next to him. “Come on, let’s go before it clouds over again.”  
  
So the two of them walked the short distance to downtown Denver. Miles hadn’t gone much past the therapist’s office before, but it was nice to see the town. The snow banks were still high, but the sidewalks were dry and easy to walk on. Being outside, Miles felt different, lighter. He liked blending in – he wasn’t as uneasy as he expected.  
  
The two grabbed paninis in a little cafe, drinking waters. “What do you do to pass the time around the apartment?” Waylon asked. “Since… _technology_ doesn’t like you.”  
  
Miles shrugged and clarified his earlier statement: “I fucking blew up my computer when I first got back. God knows how that works. I mostly read, don’t write much anymore.”  
  
Waylon looked down and took a bite of his panini. “Y’know, I used to read your work. Back before all this shit. That’s how I knew you’d be right to take down Murkoff.”  
  
Miles raised his eyebrows. “Really? Huh.”  
  
“I’d had my doubts about them from the start,” Waylon frowned. “You were good at what you do.”  
  
“The notes you made weren’t so bad either,” Miles smirked and looked away as well. “Those days are long past. I’ll probably never have to write again.”  
  
“Is it hard –” Wayon started suddenly, but cut himself off. “Sorry, I shouldn’t ask that.”  
  
Miles sighed. “Go ahead. Chance are I’ve heard it before.”  
  
“Just… your _hands,_ ” Waylon quietly said. “Is it still hard to do stuff?”  
  
Miles shrugged, looking down, rubbing his thumbs over his fingers habitually. “Sometimes. For most things I’ve gotten used to it.” He self consciously balled his fists.  
  
“Sorry I asked,” Waylon ducked his head again.  
  
“T’s fine,” Miles dismissed. “You can ask whatever you want. I was the one who answered.”  
  
After lunch, they walked a little more, then Waylon got tired and Miles took him home. Leaving him at the elevator, Waylon asked, “Can we do this again sometime?”  
  
Miles nodded. He’d made a friend.

 


	3. ἔρως – sexual love

Nine months after Mount Massive, Miles and Waylon were living together.  
  
It had happened very gradually – in the spring, Miles had started sleeping in Waylon’s spare room after his nightmares relapsed into as bad as they’d been immediately after the fact. The therapist said it was due to all the different drug therapies they’d been through, but Waylon knew it was because he was weak. Having Miles around made him feel better and made the nightmares improve, and it made Miles feel physically better being near someone else [who had been in the engine].  
  
(Was that related to how It worked?)  
  
June was hot in Denver, and the two had to dress lightly now. Miles could easily see Waylon’s huge gaping scar on his right ankle, which had finally started to improve. Waylon could see Miles’ ancient self-harm scars.  
  
Waylon’s apartment had changed a lot since Miles had moved in. Everything was cleaner. All the photos of his family were gone, except for a portrait of his boys on his bedside table. Lisa had told him she wanted to finalize the divorce which wreaked hell on his psyche. He never wore his wedding ring anymore (not that he did much to start) and he almost never called Lisa to vent. Waylon was habituating to life without her, eternally accompanied now by his trauma, but also by Miles.  
  
The therapists had warned them from the start that the person they became after the treatment might be different from who they were before the trauma, but it was a risk they had to take. Waylon was learning to let go. He felt like a different person, everything before that fateful night in Mount Massive belonged to someone else, locked in a folder somewhere he couldn’t access. Things that he’d forced to the front of his mind to help him through the horrors of the asylum were now forever tied to those experiences; psychosomatic associations, memories he couldn’t recall without also recalling the last time he’d thought of them.  
  
Waylon knew he wasn’t the same person he was before. His healing was now accepting how he had changed.  
  
He hated that he couldn’t feel the same about Lisa again. He hated that he would never be able to love her again, or any other woman for that matter. He had so much doubt that this was temporary, that he’d one day be able to take solace in her arms. Each day, more and more, he was realizing that he didn’t need Lisa. He needed Miles.  
  
He was slow to warm up to the idea, but his affection for Miles was becoming more apparent. When the other man would come and cook for him, when they’d talk across the hall, when they’d smile at each other on the way in and out of the therapist’s office. This was more than friendship. He slid a little farther from intimacy alone towards infatuation each time Miles brushed his long hair out of his eyes, stretched so his shirt showed tanned stomach skin, leaned his shoulder onto Waylon’s as they watched TV from a safe distance.  
  
By the time summer rolled around, Waylon (with the help of Dr. Lopez) was on the way to accepting it. He just prayed that Miles was on the same page.  
  
But Miles was. It was fairly clear Waylon was falling for him, and Miles couldn’t deny his feelings. Miles had no invested so much time into Waylon; it hard not to feel for the other man.  
  
It was a hot night in mid-June when Waylon welcomed Miles into his bed.  
  
Neither of them had known it would lead there. They’d been watching Wheel of Fortune, the sky still bright out their window. Miles had had a bath earlier and Waylon’s hand lay in his wet hair, rubbing gentle circles. A quiet ad had been on TV and Miles had turned his head to look at Waylon, red light from the window coloring his skin. Waylon’s hand had traveled to his cheek and suddenly they were kissing for the first time and it didn’t feel wrong. The TV lay forgotten as Miles flipped over so he was front to front with Waylon and they continued to kiss, grasping each other, taking each other, suddenly overwhelmed by passion.  
  
Miles didn’t want to marry this man, but he wanted his body. _Bad_.  
  
It had been months for either of them. Sex wasn’t something you thought about much when you were on a medley of antidepressants and antianxiety medications. They both knew they needed this. Waylon was so tired of being afraid. He wasn’t afraid anymore.  
  
Things became more heated. Miles’ mangled hands ran over Waylon’s body, feeling him, trying to pull him close. The way Waylon grabbed back told him what he was doing was alright; Miles didn’t even have to think about the two young Park boys who would never be able to comprehend why their father was doing this. He just let the passion take control.  
  
Their minds were completely focused. Everything that had lead them to where they were now was forgotten. Barely stopping for a breath, they started making their way to Waylon’s bedroom. Clothes were strewn as they made their way – Miles’ jeans, Waylon’s tank top, both their shoes and socks. Waylon’s room was warm and the window was open silhouetting them as Miles climbed on top of Waylon and continued to kiss him.  
  
Clearly, this had been something that Miles had subconsciously been expecting. Why else would he have moved his condoms and lube up from his suitcase into Waylon’s spare room? He left the other man for a moment, seductively looking him in the eye, promising him he’d be back, and he hurried to his room for his supplies.  
  
Returning to Waylon’s room, he was lying on his back, chest rising and falling, glowing with pure want. Miles breathed heavily, words escaping him. “... Which way do you want to do this?”  
  
“I don’t care,” Waylon reached for Miles and pulled him back onto the bed by the collar of his shirt. “I just want to feel everything…”  
  
(Miles absolutely could synthesize with this – he’d had his fair share of perception issues since the events, sometimes hypersensitive, sometimes he couldn’t feel anything. Did It cause that?)  
  
So he sat back on the bed, kissing Waylon until their confidence was up again, rubbing Waylon’s crotch, letting instinct take over, mentally checking out, not letting himself think of the implications. He knew Waylon wanted this, _needed_ this. Sex didn’t mean love. (Did it?)  
  
As the sun went down, they continued. Eventually, Waylon got Miles’ shirt off (and didn’t notice some very compromising scars) and they were both in their underwear, entwining their legs. It was rough, but not hateful. Waylon rolled Miles away so he was sitting on top after twenty minutes of just kissing and commanded, “I can’t wait anymore, please just put it in…”  
  
Miles swallowed, his mouth so dry, cock so hard. He nodded wordlessly and prepared himself quickly. Waylon was suddenly nude before him in the dark, as was Miles, and they eased themselves together. Once he was in to the hilt, Waylon exhaled fully. This was happening.  
  
Passion took over. Waylon jumped like he never had with Lisa before, every nerve firing in his body. Miles felt outside of himself; he felt everything in the room, in the building around him, in Waylon, body and mind. They were linked, connected, tied together by some invisible cord.  
  
It was hot, and it was good. Waylon enjoyed every second, despite how foreign it was. He let Miles lead, which Miles was happy to do. He felt human, flushed and red, panting and sweating. He had so much power with Waylon beneath him, arranging him however he pleased. All Waylon wanted was to please.  
  
They went at it well into the night. Miles worked at Waylon as well, pulling out all the stops. They fucked like a couple that had been at it for years. Like they knew everything the other wanted, like they knew each other’s soft spots, like clockwork. There was no doubt, no regret in either of their minds. When it had been going on long into the night, Waylon finally couldn’t hold back any longer and came hard onto Miles, and this was the cue for Miles to let himself go as well. It was beautiful, fantastic sex, and when Miles pulled out, he was more relaxed than he’d been for months. Both their brains shut off and they slept soundly beside one another.  
  
Miles didn’t sleep in his own bed ever again after that.  
  
The next morning, when eastern light touched Waylon’s face and he stirred awake, he inspected the still sleeping Miles. When he found the bullet wounds, that’s when he started to suspect.  
  
Still, that didn’t reduce his passion.


	4. ἀγάπη — godly love

Twelve months after Mount Massive, Waylon saw the walrider again.  
  
He’d been in the engine for four days, give or take. He’d thought he’d been over it; the visceral remnants on his field of vision had stopped after the drying grounds and only came up occasionally since. Times he hadn’t taken note of, times he’d chalked up to being random.  
  
Now, when his brain should have been all better, he was seeing it again.  
  
At first, he was scared. He could sense it when Miles was upset — he could hear the static, feel the buzzing. That shit still resided in his bones. He didn’t want to anger it, he didn’t want to accept what he knew was true. He was afraid to mention it to Miles, for he had no idea what kind of reaction to expect. If Miles had been okay with it, Waylon was sure they would’ve talked about it before.  
  
Did Miles know? Could people who weren’t in the engine even see it?  
  
Miles was careful about these things. Of course he knew, although the memories from the end were foggy, he absolutely understood the power he possessed, what he’d taken from Murkoff, what he could never give back. It had been helpful those first few weeks after, but it had gotten weaker. That didn’t mean it went away; it didn’t, it was always there. Miles thought Waylon didn’t know. He thought nobody knew.  
  
No witnesses, no truth.  
  
Miles kept his shirt on almost all the time. The scars were light, but they were scars he couldn’t explain. He was not a self-conscious man, but he didn’t want Waylon to know. Waylon couldn’t handle it.  
  
But Waylon was curious. He wanted to know.  
  
The two were lying in Waylon’s bed in the middle of the morning on a weekday when the older man slipped his hand under Miles’ shirt. Waylon took a long, slow breath, before finally mustering his nerve.  
  
“Miles… you died there… didn’t you…?”  
  
This was something Miles had never expected to hear. Maybe something he’d never really accepted himself. He shifted, a little uncomfortably below Waylon, heart quickening. “What are you saying?”  
  
“These,” Waylon pulled Miles’ shirt up suddenly, exposing the barrage of bullet holes on his front. “How the fuck do you have these?”  
  
Miles knew he shouldn’t lie to Waylon. The other man was smart, and he cared about him. He deserved to know more than his second-rate therapist who wouldn’t be able to comprehend a kilobyte of what Miles had to live with.  
  
“I don’t…” Miles started, but trailed off. “I don’t know. I don’t know how it works, I can’t remember…”  
  
“I can… sense it,” Waylon admitted, eyes wide. “I know it’s there. Do you know what it is?”  
  
Miles closed his eyes and nearly snorted at the preposterousness of the question. He nodded, unwilling to name it. Naming it gave it power. Naming it made it real.  
  
“I thought I was imagining things…” Waylon covered his mouth. “I thought it was flashbacks, things I hadn’t seen since the asylum…”  
  
Miles balled his fists, pulling his shirt back down and moving away from Waylon. “It’s not my fault,” he said a little too softly.  
  
Waylon was still there, trembling, shaking his head in disbelief. “No,” he said. “No, this isn’t real.”  
  
Miles looked to him, a different energy in his eyes. “You want to kill me.”  
  
“No, I don’t–” Waylon stuttered. “Miles, I–”  
  
“You can’t kill something that’s already fucking dead,” Miles said softly, getting up.  
  
“No,” the tech guy raised his voice. “Don’t leave me.”  
  
“It’s never fucking gone, Waylon,” Miles’ voice was rising. Both of them could feel its energy in their brains. The alarm clock flickered.    
  
“You…” Waylon was in disbelief. “You’re a…” Miles’ skin darkened, veins protruding, radiation burns. “You’re a fucking miracle,” Waylon muttered.  
  
This was a first. Miles narrowed his eyes. “... What?”  
  
“You _died_ for Murkoff’s sins,” Waylon marvelled. “And it _saved_ you.”  
  
“It saved me to save itself,” Miles insisted, frowning, doubtful.  
  
“You… you kept it all this time?” Waylon asked, climbing off the bed as well. “You sustained it?” Miles was unsure but nodded. “Did it… did it feed off me?” Again, Miles made the same gesture. Waylon was breathing heavily, eyes distant. Miles felt the swarm flare up in a way it usually did only if he were very on edge. It could sense Waylon, it was connecting them.  
  
“I… I was a part of this,” Waylon was still in awe. There was something primal, instinctual about the dull Rorschach blotches flashing across his vision, the heartbeat thrum of electricity inside his cells. Waylon had seen the raw power of the walrider, and he was both equally terrified and awestruck. “Why didn’t it kill me?” he asked suddenly. “Then, or now, or ever?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Miles answered honestly. “I barely understand how it works. No one’s ever told me, it’ll all just what I can scrape together from documents. It uses people’s cells to make its machines. The process is triggered by stress, catalyzed by the engine. That’s why it was killing people – getting its tech out of their blood.”  
  
“Can you control it?” Waylon asked.  
  
“Yes,” Miles answered.  
  
Suddenly, Waylon was floored. Miles contained the powers of a god, this techno-eldritch beast living constantly just under his skin, and he spent his days fucking Waylon Park? Miles could have torn him apart months ago, he could’ve killed everyone, but he had the strength to contain it.  
  
Miles was completely unaware of Waylon’s mental soliloquy. He was worrying about the moony gaze his partner was giving him, something in his eyes that he couldn’t place. “Look, Waylon, I didn’t mean to hide it from you, but I just wanted you to be safe. If you knew, Murkoff could’ve come after you, too. I… I wanted to pretend to be normal for you, I don’t want you to hate me…”  
  
“Hate you?” Waylon repeated, eyes sharpening. “No, Miles, no…” he fell to his knees, grabbing Miles’ hands. “I would do anything for you…”  
  
Miles was incredibly dubious, but the creature inside him made a soft metallic noise and shifted under his skin, melding its mind with his and with Waylon’s simultaneously. Waylon was telling the truth.  
  
“Why?” Miles asked incredulously, black smoke pooling around his hands as Waylon grasped his fingers, ogling the beast.  
  
“Because I…” Waylon brought Miles’ hazy fist to his mouth and kissed it softly, taking in this horrible shuddering breath. “I _love_ you.”  
  
This wasn’t what Miles had wanted. So much flashed through his mind – every interaction he’d ever had with Waylon, from that first email to his eyes falling on him in the asylum to their first touch, their first kiss, their first fuck. Miles didn’t want to make this man fall in love with him. He knew it wasn’t proper; this love was not true, not pure, not deserved by any means. Now, he knew also the walrider was fucking with Waylon’s mind: fifteen minutes of it exposing itself and he’d reverted back to delusional patient status. Miles didn’t get why people worshipped the swarm, but he was seeing it again firsthand.  
  
And god, he wanted to pretend this was real.  
  
“Waylon,” he said very softly, looking down at the smaller man, forcing his commensal back to its dormant state. He ignored the rush of blood to his head. “You don’t have to say that.”  
  
Waylon's eyes were sharper now. “No, I mean it. You were there for me when no one else was. You’re the reason I’m making progress — you’re the reason I’m better!”  
  
Coping better, sure, but it was clear Waylon’s head was still fucked in a way psychotherapy couldn’t fix; whatever the morphogenic engine had biologically loaded into his brain was suddenly resurfacing and could never be fully removed. Miles had had three minutes of exposure and it was enough to perpetuate the machinery for a year. He could hardly imagine the kind of factory an asylum full of people exposed to it for months would have been.  
  
“You…” Miles sighed, feeling weak. “You help me a lot too, Park.” Help him feel, maybe. Help him get off so he can feel his own blood pump through his veins again, help him remember to eat. “Things can never be easy between us…”  
  
“Well just keep doing what we’re doing,” Waylon insisted. “It doesn’t have to get complicated. I’ll take what I can get.”  
  
Miles couldn’t help but smirk in disbelief again. “You were the best part of my life for this past year,” Miles softly admitted. “But…” but Miles never got close to anyone! He never opened up; he never let anyone get attached.  
  
“But nothing,” Waylon stood now and touched Miles’ face. “My divorce is going through. I’ll never judge you for this — I’m the only one who can ever really know.”  
  
Miles was so hesitant. “You shouldn’t love me.”  
  
“I do,” Waylon insisted with a sad voice, “and I will. And I know you think about it, too…”  
  
“Jesus…” Miles pulled away, now sitting back on the bed and putting his head in his hands. “Of course I do! You wonder why I do these things? It’s for you, Waylon, it’s all for you.”  
  
“You should be doing them for _you_!” Waylon insisted. “I want you to be okay…”  
  
Miles shook his head, still blocking his face with his hands. “No, no… it’s not that easy…”  
  
“Why won’t you let me love you?” Waylon demanded. “I want to know. Either let me, or tell me.”  
  
Miles looked up at him with incredibly sad eyes. “I’m dead, Waylon. I am fucking dead.”  
  
“It keeps you alive, doesn’t it?” Waylon asked.  
  
“But it’s… it’s dying too…” Miles admitted, so so quietly. “Murkoff didn’t know what it was making. They didn’t set up the swarm for long-term potentiation, it relies on the engine and a hospital full of patients to sustain itself. It’s getting smaller, Way, it has been from the start, and once it’s gone, I’m gone.”  
  
This was Miles’ curse. He had to live with this terrible technobeast, but without it, he was dead again.  
  
Waylon covered his mouth. He sat on the bed, trying to process the news. After a long time, he spoke again: “... How long have you known?”  
  
“A long time,” Miles admitted.  
  
“So why have you been going to therapy?” Waylon asked. “Why have you been getting better?”  
  
Miles shook his head again and gave Waylon a wry smile. “Can’t you see? I did it to help you, Waylon, so you’d have someone else to show you how to do it. You think you’d be taking your meds at the same time every day if I wasn’t? You think you’d have been on time for the last thirty therapy sessions if I wasn’t waking you up and telling you to go?” A tear rolled down his cheek. “That’s how I love you, Park.”  
  
“It’s not fair,” Waylon was crying now, too. “It’s not fucking fair, why do you have to die…?”  
  
Miles embraced him and buried his face in his chest. “It fucking sucks, Waylon, but that’s how it is. That’s why you can’t love me, okay? I don’t want to hurt you. You have to keep this going for both of us.”  
  
“I can’t,” Waylon said softly. “I’m nothing… I can’t do anything right.”  
  
“You got out of Mount Massive,” Miles gripped his shoulder. “I couldn’t do that.”  
  
It was true. Miles just didn’t have the luck; Waylon did. Fate was eternally aligned against Miles from the minute he stepped into that asylum, maybe from even before.  
  
“Isn’t there anything I can do?” Waylon asked, looking up and meeting Miles’ gaze. “Can it use me? Can it feed off me?”  
  
Miles had thought about this a lot. He knew already that it did; the physical burden of being host had definitely lessened once he’d spent time around Waylon. He’d considered if Waylon would suffice as host (if you could even transfer that sort of thing) but he wasn’t willing to try.  
  
“You’ve done enough,” Miles promised. “It’ll make you worse, it’ll fuck up your brain. You saw what shape the other patients were in.”  
  
“That was from the treatment,” Waylon insisted. “I can do it just fine!”  
  
“It lives off horror,” Miles reminded him. “Putting it to rest isn’t going to be a bad thing.”  
  
“But losing you is,” Waylon touched his face. “Please, we’ll make this work. I want to keep you for as long as possible. We’ll find the engine, you found the formula, I’ve debugged it, we can keep this going.”  
  
Waylon did love him. He’d put himself through hell again for the light Miles brought to his life. Altruism, going both ways.  
  
Miles wouldn’t let him. They worked on Waylon getting better, fending for himself, visiting with Lisa again, getting outside. Within months, the walrider was working Miles to death to sustain itself, and he knew it was his time.  
  
Ever since Miles was a smaller, tanner, blonder version of himself back in college, he knew he wanted a poetic death. Countless elegies and laments, lines in iambic pentameter his heart wouldn’t soon forget. _No longer mourn for me when I am dead._ He hadn’t known then if he’d be able to sense death coming as so many ancient poets had. With his current condition, he knew he was only prolonging the inevitable, but there was a distinct time he got that feeling. He felt like fall, like dusk, like fire dwindling to embers.  
  
He knew Waylon knew it was coming. It was going to be incredibly hard on the other man, but it was something he had to do. Once this waning feeling fell upon him, he framed it every which way in his mind: telling Waylon, not telling Waylon, doing it together, making Waylon do it, ending it as soon as possible, waiting it out and staying around until the last viable minute. He ran the scenarios in his mind, tried to think what he would’ve wanted if it were Waylon who was the one who had to go. He knew it would be no surprise when the time came, but he didn’t see any reason not to wait. He also chose early on that he wasn’t going to tell Waylon at the time of – knowing this was the last time he’d see Miles would likely be more painful than not knowing.  
  
(Would it? If Waylon knew Miles wasn’t planning to tell him, would he live in constant fear? Would ever interaction have to be a good one so that if this was the last time, they’d part on a good foot?)  
  
When Miles knew it was time, he tried to play it off. He realized some time around dinner, no appetite whatsoever, slight headache, weak pulse, cold hands and oh so tired. He didn’t want to let on. He’d been strong for this long, he could make it a little longer. As they ate, Waylon rang his fingers over Miles’ mutilated hands, occasionally being nipped by the nanotech but not minding in the slightest.  
  
Miles hung around the window as the sun set, completely open, half leaning out, breathing in the evening air with tired lungs. Waylon gave him a lingering look, the god haloed in the window by golden afternoon light. Perhaps somewhere in the back of his mind, Waylon expected this was the end. He tried to tell himself Miles was always this poetic and wistful, today was nothing more. Waylon had physio the next day, so he knew he’d have to be up and ready to go fairly early. He wandered to the window, sitting on the arm of the couch and meeting Miles’ gaze.  
  
“Is everything alright?” Waylon hesitantly asked against his better judgment.  
  
Miles licked his lips, met his lover’s gaze, and chose his words carefully. “The sun feels so nice.”  
  
Waylon hummed and moved to stand by the window with Miles, letting the golden heat bathe his face. He sighed, releasing tension. It took him back to escaping that asylum, light in his eyes at dawn, now a year later at dusk. Full circle. Miles soaked in the positivity shining off Waylon. He was going to be okay. That gave Miles all the solace in the world.  
  
The journalist climbed out of the window frame and looped an arm around Waylon’s shoulders. “Come on, let’s get to bed.”  
  
It didn’t feel eerie. Miles knew his time was up, but he was alright with it. When he had died for the first time, in the asylum, all he felt was despair. All that for nothing. All that and he was so close. Now, he’d done something. He’d loved, he’d been loved. They didn’t fuck, they just held each other until Waylon’s breathing slowed and he fell asleep. Miles unwound himself from his arms, easily, gently, kissed the tousled dark locks on his lover’s forehead, and slipped on his shoes.  
  
He wore just his sweatpants, a decent shirt, his jacket. He didn’t want to go, but he knew he had to. He lingered in the door of their bedroom for far too long, admiring Waylon’s sleeping frame. The swarm egged him on, told him he had to go, but he just stayed. He kept looking back, even as he made his way to the door and locked it behind him.  
  
His mind was made up. He took the Jeep - it was rightfully his after all - and piled himself in. His bones ached now, the ambience from the swarm quieter than it had been in his memory. He drove the Jeep up the hill, away from Denver, leaving it at a lookoff with his keys in the ignition, wandering into thick woods before him. He wasn’t sad as he started to fade away, the nanotechnology finally putting him to rest. The full moon made the sky bright, lighting his way on the path his spirit would walk forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for making it all the way through my story! I hope you enjoyed.


End file.
